


like a dog inspires a rabbit

by notactuallybatman



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Additional Cashton, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Ashley is a super cutie, Blowjobs, Cashton are Cashton, Chrissy is a cutie, Fic Exchange, I also apologise for my utter lack of Australian-ness, Idiots in Love, Josh is a bit of a dick, M/M, Panic Attacks, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing, butchering of the English language, handjobs, implied depression, it's pretty minor but whatever, lots and lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notactuallybatman/pseuds/notactuallybatman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Scientifically speaking, if one were to assume the universe as a higher, supernatural power, there is a very real possibility that the universe has favourites. People it likes, people it favours, people that never have anything bad or awkward or emotionally mortifying happen to them.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Scientifically speaking, Luke is not one of them. </i></p><p> </p><p>Or, the one in which Luke attends a music school, Michael is a bit of a dick and feelings are way overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a dog inspires a rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: _‘Muke college roommates AU’_ , which was literally the shortest description possible so it left me with a lot of creative freedom, thank you for that! I hope you liked what became of it. (I know I do.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this story. Neither 5SOS nor any of the other mentioned band members or other celebrities are mine. Sydney’s School of Music and Dramatic Arts does not exist, I made it up. (I’m sure Sydney’s music schools are all ace.)
> 
> If you find any grammatical, logical or spelling mistakes, you’re very welcome to keep them.
> 
> Dedicated to [Carly](http://mikeykink.tumblr.com/) (thesoulsailor), who unfortunately couldn’t finish her fic exchange due to her laptop literally going up in flames. My writing senpai, my love, my one and only. You helped me so much throughout this process, this is as much your baby as it is mine.
> 
> Enjoy.

When Luke Hemmings had applied for Sydney’s School Of Music And Dramatic Arts, he hadn’t imagined it to be such a shithole.

He’d like to be able to call it something else. Something prettier, maybe ‘run-down’ or ‘rusty’. ‘Old-fashioned’ would be nice, or even ‘in need of some reparations’.

But really, that was what it is. A shithole.

Standing on the front lawn of his future school, suitcase in hand, Luke observes his new home.

The school is small and old, two joined buildings forming the shape of an L. One building for students, one for classrooms, Luke presumes, although he fails to recognize where there’d be any space for auditoriums, music chambers, performing spaces or y’know, stuff a school for music and dramatic arts is probably supposed to have. The ‘garden’ surrounding the school is a dried out piece of land with a few wilting flowers growing here and there. The floors are sticky, the rooms are small, the walls are an ugly yellow-ass colour that looks like a mixture between mustard and vomit and the whole thing reeks suspiciously of cabbage.

Within ten minutes of his arrival, Luke decides that this places sucks ass.

He sighs. Obviously, getting to pursue a career in music _and_ having a Hogwarts-like dream of a school to live in is too much to ask.

He gives the building another thorough once-over and comes to the conclusion that yeah, no, there really is no way this is going to look any better any time soon. The only thing that would make the whole thing maybe not suck as much would have to be the people. The teachers, the classes, his fellow students.

He’d like a friend.

Not even a boyfriend or girlfriend, not a soulmate or something everlasting. Just someone to hang out with, someone he could spend the nights talking to, someone who’d help him through his classes and academic struggles.

Luke hasn’t had a friend in ages.

Sighing, Luke shoulders his guitar bag and strolls through the corridors in search for his room.

 

\---------------------

 

The first thing Luke is greeted with when he opens the door to his new home - after a fifteen-minute search through what feels like the entire school building, because apparently this school deems helpful sign posts for newcomers overrated - is a boot.

It’s a pretty great boot, from what he can tell. Big, black, heavy, like a combat boot. Nicely worn out, obviously loved, adorned with silver laces that skip some holes here and there.

It’s also attached to a person.

Said person is lying right there, in his dorm room, right behind the door. Which, alright, probably not too weird. People lie on floors all the time. It’s a thing people do.

Although most people probably don’t air guitar along to the music pouring out of their big black headphones.

Luke takes in the sight in front of him. A shock of hair dyed in various shades of purple and pink and blue, pale white skin, soft features, a black shirt with leather sleeves, black jeans.

Deciding to make himself known, Luke clears his throat.

The air-guitaring continues.

Luke clears his throat again.

Purple-and-blue-hair remains entirely unbothered.

Luke hits one of the boots with his suitcase, and jackpot. The guy springs up faster than a rabbit during mating season. He yanks off his headphones and Luke is met with two impossibly pretty pale green eyes staring at him in shock.

They’re really pretty. Like green food colouring in water. Or celery. Or something. Can celery be considered pretty? Luke is not good at these kind of comparisons.

The green eyes are also talking to him, Luke realizes. Which, fuck.

“Sorry?”

“I _said_ , what the fuck are you doing here?!”

“Uh, I don’t, like - this is my room, sort of? I was told to be here, and… stuff.”

_Yeah, Hemmings, go get that first impression. Awesome._

“Oh. _Oh_. You’re the roommate.” Boots-and-hair doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic. He drops down on one of the beds placed on opposite sides of the room (which is, unsurprisingly, way too small for two grown boys in their early twenties) and runs a hand through his already messy hair.

“Roommate?”

“Yeah, did they not tell you?” he says in a biting tone, furrowing his eyebrows. He has a silver bar pierced through his right eyebrow. Luke faints internally.

“Obviously not.” the other guy continues when Luke fails to answer. He rolls his eyes and puts his headphones on again, stretching on his bed and ignoring Luke completely.

Alright then. Luke does a weird half-shrug-half-clueless hand movement and turns around to dump his guitar bag next to the bed that is apparently his. He slides his suitcase underneath and sits down clumsily. Swinging his legs, Luke shoots the other boy an intrigued look, which he decidedly ignores.

“Sooo… What’s your name?” he asks.

No response. Which, rude, but okay.

“Who are you, then?” Luke tries again.

“I’m Luke, and you are…?”

A deep sigh emits from the other bed, like all the weight of the world rests on these pale shoulders currently lying across the room. There is a small pause, then Luke’s new roommate sits up sharply, yanking his headphones down, and glares at him.

“Alright, listen, mate, I’m gonna be honest with you for a second. We’re gonna have to spend a lot of time together, so get this over with. I’m Michael Clifford, you’re Luke Hemmings according to that stupid ass name tag on your suitcase. You do music, I do music, but don’t get cocky about it, everyone here fucking does.”

“I wasn’t planning on -“, Luke interjects, but Michael doesn’t let him finish.

He stands up and walks towards him, invading his personal space with a mean expression, and suddenly his soft features don’t look so soft anymore.

“I don’t care where you’ve come from, I don’t care what you do or what you like or what you try to achieve in your short, insignificant life. I don’t want anything from you. I only ask one thing.”

“Yeah?” Luke says, ears perking up.

“Don’t ever talk to me again.” he finishes his speech like a punch to the gut.

Ignoring the tears that begins to well up in Luke’s blue eyes, Michael calmly turns on his heel and walks out the door, headphones still dangling from his neck.

He doesn’t return till later that night, when Luke is already fast asleep, dreaming and hoping for a first week of school better than this horrible first encounter, this intimidating first attempt at friendship in a new place.

 

\--------------------

 

By the time the end of the week rolls around, Luke is completely and utterly frustrated.

Michael is impossible.

He’s messy. Luke has stopped counting the times he tripped over Michael’s strewn around combat boots by the door (and really, their room is much too small to leave any space for tripping over anything, especially if you’re approximately six foot tall).

Michael’s stuff is everywhere, on his bed, on the floor next to his bed, generally everywhere on the floor, on Luke’s bed. Luke is increasingly glad their school is too shitty to give each room its own bathroom, because he’s not sure he’d survive the mess Michael would leave after showering.

(Or the regular sight of him wrapped in a short towel, with droplets of water running down his pale back, standing right there in the middle of their room looking like a fucking marble statue. That happened once this week and Luke had to take approximately ten cold showers to recover from the image.)

(He continues to be in utter denial about the ways of Michael Clifford’s Ridiculous Attractiveness, thank you very much.)

How exactly he manages to be that messy is beyond Luke, because he’s also permanently absent.

In the morning, he leaves at the same time Luke does, sometimes earlier. He’s gone all day. He’s never there when Luke gets back from class, neither mid-day nor in the evening. Sometimes, he’s not even there in the morning.

Luke wonders where he goes all the time. Does he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? A gang of punks that raid the city at night? A superhero alter ego? Luke has no clue.

(He did check Michael’s closet for capes once though. Just to make sure.)

But more importantly, and most frustratingly, he still refuses to talk to Luke.

It’s not like Luke hasn’t tried.

He’s tried to talk to him about classes (“Sooo, what are you taking?”, response: a glare), about hobbies (“So I guess you, uh, like music?”, response: more glaring), even about family back home (and really, Michael should give classes on glaring, he’s a natural).

All attempts failed perfectly. Michael continues to be about as talkative as a rock.

Now and then, there’s good days. Luke occasionally gets a grumpy “Morning” when they both roll out of bed in the morning, and if he’s lucky, he might even get a mumbled “See ya” when Michael leaves for class. Sometimes at night, he even catches Michael smiling to himself reading something on his phone, his features illuminated by the bright light of his screen. But when he notices Luke staring, he snaps up, his face returning to his usual mean scowl, and sneers at Luke like a guard dog looking at an invader.

It’s perfectly frustrating.

In short, Luke is slowly, but surely giving up on the whole romanticized ‘roommates’ thing.

 

\--------------------                                                                                                           

 

Luke finds other friends.

There is Ashton, the curly-haired, permanently happy barista at the school’s coffee shop.

(The ‘coffee shop’ is basically just the corner of the shitty cafeteria that sells their shitty coffee, but they like to call it a coffee shop in order to mock it, to mock this shithole full of music geeks they ended up in.)

Ashton is nice. He sells him coffee and drums on the counter, honey curls bouncing up and down, biceps flexing. He talks to Luke about how much their school sucks if Luke has got ten minutes to spare in the morning. Luke doesn’t know if Ashton takes any classes here. He doesn’t care. This guy brings him coffee and smiles first thing in the morning, he deems him his personal saint.

There is Calum, with the chocolate eyes and the caramel skin, whose eyes crinkle when he smiles and who lends him a pen the first day in Composition 101.

Luke drops his books when he walks into class, Calum laughs at him and gestures to the free seat next to him and just like that, they’re friends, like in kindergarten, when you’d just have to have the right kind of weird glasses in order to make friends. When friends weren’t met with expectations and complicated standards, only with chocolate-stained fingers and smiles, like the one that seems to be permanently etched into Calum’s smooth features.

Calum’s got other friends, but that’s okay. Calum is one of the cool kids, he hangs around in the park or near the river in the evening, with his group of Capital C Cool Friends with their snapbacks and their beer cans, and he asks Luke if he wants to come along sometimes, but Luke says no, thank you, and smiles.

Luke smiles and goes home to his small, shitty (and permanently vacant) bedroom. He sits on his windowsill and plays some guitar. He finds a chord here and a melody there, fitting them together like puzzle pieces, and his world is at peace.

His mom calls and asks him if he’s doing okay. Luke says yes.

Luke gets by. Luke is okay.

 

\---------------------

 

Writing, to Luke, is a double-edged sword.

If you’re good, if you’re on a run and everything just flows out of you, like a stream of creativity and sound, without you doing much to it, then it’s bliss. Then it’s pure electricity under your fingertips, getting swept up in a rush of colour and sound and feeling. It’s words and the chords pouring themselves out in front of you.

If you’re not… Well.

Luke is sat down in front of his sheets, determined to finish this song he started the other day. It looks pretty good so far, a solid base line, some verses, a catchy and easy-going melody, some key changes. All he has to do now is add some words for the chorus.

Some _fucking words_.

And they _won’t come_.

There is invisible fog clogging up his brain, taking up every notch, infiltrating his mind. It is blocking his every creative idea, dulling the sounds he heard until there is nothing left in him, no ideas and no spark and no _goddamn creativity_. It makes him dull, his lines generic and boring and he is so, _so_ absolutely ready to give up. With a dramatic groan, Luke flops down in the midst of sheets and papers.

That’s how Ashton finds him two hours later, sprawled on the floor flat on his back and head buried under his arms.

“How’s the writing going, Sheeran?” he interrupts Luke’s Very Serious Songwriter’s Brooding, cheerful as ever.

(He has yet to drop the nickname he gave him the first time Luke told him he wrote songs. Luke generally tries his hardest not to be endeared.)

“It’s _impossible_ , Ash”, Luke whines in response. “I can’t do this. There’s this one bit and it’s driving me _crazy_ and it _won’t work_ and you know, maybe I’ll never finish it, maybe I’ll just chuck this all in the bin and –“

“Whoa there, nope, nope, nope we are _not_ having this today” Ash interrupts him sternly. He nudges the floppy mess that is Luke with his foot.

“Get dressed. You’re brooding and it is my duty to haul your miserable ass to Calum’s.”

Luke’s head goes up. “Calum?”

“Yes, Calum. He’s having a park thing again and I have strict orders to make you come, drag you there by force, if necessary.”

Luke groans. Calum’s ‘park things’ consist of him and his Cool Friends hanging out in one of the parks in town, getting drunk and listening to the weirdest mix of music known to man. The music part Luke is into, has experience with, the getting drunk part not so much. Or the people part. Or anything related to being cool ever, actually.

“I’m not going.”

“Luke.”

They have a quick, wordless argument told through facial and bodily expressions. Luke’s dramatically whiney expression says ‘I’m not going’. Ashton’s bulging arm muscles say otherwise.

Luke pulls himself off the floor, throws on a flannel, finds some shoes and pushes Ashton out the door before his biceps starts glaring at him.

 

\-------------------

 

Ashton leads him to a park near the edge of town, a good thirty minute walk away from their school. It’s a pretty, quite clean piece of land, with soft grass and a huge group of trees shielding the clearing inside from the surrounding Sydney suburbs. 

There’s a makeshift table on one side, consisting of two beer crates with a skateboard placed on them. A laptop is set up on it with two loudspeakers attached, pouring out Green Day music at a volume that’s probably illegal for a public park at 10 pm. Under the table, a colourful display of various liquors is laid out.

The ‘thing’ turns out to mostly involve people from their school, spread out lazily on the grass, lax in the late summer heat. Some of them Luke has seen before, some he hasn’t. He spots Ashley, the turquoise-haired composition major who lives across the hall from him, talking animatedly to a petite brunette girl with dramatic winged eyeliner who Luke is pretty sure he’s never seen before. Jack, Calum’s favourite partner in crime and long-time crush who Luke secretly suspects to be way too old to still be in college education, is fiddling with the liquor. Somewhere in a corner, some kids are toying with a guitar.

Luke grumpily figures there could be worse places to be.

“Hey, you guys!”

Calum’s smile lights up his whole face, eyes crinkly around the corners, as per usual. He waves at them from a spot on the grass, gesturing for them to sit down next to him. Ashton throws him a quick peace sign and a grin, then he drags Luke over to the drinks.

“My friend, you look way too tense.” he says while fiddling with a beer can. “I figure you need a beer to survive this.”

Luke shrugs, not really opposed to the idea anymore. He might as well.

With a thankful nod, he takes his drink from Ashton’s gigantic hands. Luke takes a sip, still scanning the people gathered for familiar faces, he looks around the clearing once, twice, takes another sip and promptly drops his drink.

What. The _Fuck_.

There is a slight possibility that the universe has favourites. People is likes, people it favours, people that never have anything bad or awkward or emotionally mortifying happen to them. There is also a slight possibility that Luke is not one of them, if the purple-and-blue hair currently sitting amongst Calum’s friends is anything to go by.

Luke slowly realises that there is beer dripping down his leg. Luke also realises that at least half the crowd is staring at the clumsy weirdo who just dropped his beer can, unfortunately also including the black-clothed purple-haired hell spawn of Satan.

(The beer can is softly fizzing away on the ground, oozing beer into the ground. Luke hopes the grass roots like alcohol.)

Michael stares at him.

Luke stares back.

Ashton by Luke’s side has fallen silent and looks at the two, standing a good thirty feet apart from each other, looking like two deer in the headlights.

“Cal, can I have a word with you.” Luke grits through his teeth. It’s not a question.

“Uh, sure?” Calum gets up from his spot on the grass, looking confused.

The walk a few feet away from the group, Ashton following them on heel.

Luke throws a quick glance over his shoulders, looking back at the group. The galaxy-haired boy is still looking over to him. Hissing, Luke turns around.

“It’s him.”

“What?”

“That’s him. Michael. The guy with the ridiculous hair currently sitting amongst all of your friends. That’s the guy who’s been rude as hell to me since day one at this shitty ass school.”

Calum stares.

“My roommate.”

Calum looks a bit like a fish, gaping at him, mouth wide open. He stares at Luke in disbelief.

“ _Him_? Seriously? _That’s_ the guy you’ve been whining about for months?” he whisper-yells.

“I did not _whine_ -“, Luke interjects, but Calum doesn’t let him finish.

“Are you _kidding me_? Mikey’s harmless, he’s great! He’s basically a beautiful cinnamon roll!”

“Too good for this world, too pure”, Ash adds, muttering under his breath.

Calum glares at him.

“He is honestly one of the most harmless guys I’ve ever met. I’ve got him saved in my phone as ‘meme-loving fuck’, for Christ’s sakes.”

“He likes memes?” Luke asks immediately, aiming for a disinterested tone and failing completely.

“ _Not the point, Hemmings!_ ” Calum groans and grips his hair. He looks increasingly frustrated with the whole situation.

“Fix this. Fix this, you monumental idiot, I will not have two of my best friends hating each other.”

“But- “

“No ‘but’. I don’t care what the deal is with you two, I don’t care what you’ve done or what he’s done, all I care about is that you two get your shit together. You don’t have to be besties, for Christ’s sakes, just - get along. Please.” he pleads.

Luke groans internally.

Curse Calum. Curse Calum and his cute face and his puppy dog eyes.

“ _Fine_.” he sighs.

Immediately, Calum’s face lights up and he smiles wide, squishing Luke in a one-armed hug. Luke buries his face in his neck and squishes back half-heartedly. It is scientifically impossible to stay mad at anything involving Calum ever, just as it is impossible for Calum to be seriously mad at anyone ever. Grinning, he disentangles himself from Luke and grabs Ashton by the elbow, bounding off towards the rest of his friends, Ash following him on heel as always.

Luke goes and gets himself another drink.

 

\-------------------

 

Two hours later finds Luke pleasantly buzzing, sitting amongst a group of people including Ashley and the petite brunette from earlier whose name turns out to be Chrissy. The two have been engaging him in conversation from the moment he sat down, talking about music and the industry and personal representation and lots of other things Luke didn’t even know existed in the first place. They make a lot of sense, though, they really do. Luke can practically feel himself becoming more self-aware and more educated by the minute. It’s interesting. They are interesting. However, as much as they try to include him in their conversation, they also seem to have a lot more to say than him, so Luke finds himself mostly listening and giving the occasional nod and laugh.

It’s fine though, that way. It’s so wonderfully, wonderfully fine. Luke has always found himself to prefer listening over talking, watching over doing, silence over meaningless words said out of pure need to say something. It’s so much easier. Less exhausting, less stressful. Just watching people and noticing all the little things about them.

It also teaches him a lot. Like how much some people actually think about the influence, the philosophy and the message behind music, instead of just using it as a pure creative outlet, as he does. Like how easy it is to get a person talking with just a nod and a smile in the right places in conversation. Like how Chrissy is so painfully obviously interested in Ashley, the way she’s hanging onto ever word coming off her lips, and how that feeling is probably mutual, if Ashley’s unusually frequent praise for Chrissy’s makeup is anything to go by.

His train of thought is very rudely interrupted when a big mass of black leather and dyed hair comes crashing down next to him, practically landing in his lap.

Fucking hell.

“Heya there mate, sorry didn’t see you there are you -“Michael stops abruptly when he sees who he is talking to. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah. Me. Hi.” Luke replies sourly.

“What are you doing here?”

“As it so happens, I was _invited_ , thank you very much.” Luke bites. One look at that guy, and his pulse is through the roof again. (Out of anger, out of frustration, of course. The way some beer is hanging from Michael’s plump lips has got absolutely nothing to do with it.)

“No, I mean. What are you doing here. Like. You shouldn’t _be here_.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t need you here. These are my friends, go find some of your own.” Michael’s infamous glare makes a comeback at that. Luke had indeed been wondering how he’d managed to stay this long in his company without it.

“I’ll have you know I found these friends all on my own, thank you very much.” _After_ you _refused to cooperate_ , Luke’s brain bitterly adds.

“Calum was my friend first.”

“Was not.”

“Was.”

“Was not.”

Their voices have gotten louder over their argument and the girls have started to give them concerned looks, but Luke doesn’t care. He knows his behaviour is childish, but he is so not willing to stop. That dick started it.

One move and he is at his feet, Michael following suit, the both of them standing up way too fast and _holy shit_ suddenly Michael’s there, right in his space, their noses almost touching. Luke can feel his breath on his skin, beer and moisture and boy. He could count the hairs on Michael’s sloppily shaven cheeks for all its worth, but he’s not going to, he’s _not_. They stare at each other, fury in their eyes, fury and frustration and pure, boiling venom leaden in their glare. Luke does not back down, he _does not_ , he will not, he’ll hold this gaze till it be the end of him. It’s him or the other guy, him or this horrible mess he’s gotten his life into and suddenly Michael is leaning in, closer, threatening and despite Luke being a few inches taller than him he still manages to loom over him and Luke’s mind chooses to determine this particular moment to supply him with images of Michael being taller than him, of pinning him to a wall and crushing his wrists together and _abort mission abort mission abort m–_

And just like that, Michael is gone. Taken off to somewhere else, leaving a vacuum in front of Luke where he’s swaying on the spot, dizzy and light-headed with adrenaline. He has a slight feeling his previous alcohol consumption is not playing the biggest part at that.

Oh God. Oh _God_.

Luke is literally so screwed.

“What was that all about?” Chrissy asks when he sits down again, knees shaking.

Luke shakes his head and groans pathetically in lieu of an answer. Smiling softly, Chrissy gives his shoulder a sympathetic headbutt. Ashley wordlessly hands him another drink.

Luke mentally marries both of them.

 

\--------------------

 

It becomes a game, after that.

Take a drink every time Michael does something dumb. Take a drink every time he glares at Luke, or ignores Luke, or just looks like an idiot with his dumb hair and his dumb face.

A chug of beer when he avoids Luke’s stare. A gulp of cheap wine when he walks straight past him without even looking. A shot of vodka when he has the audacity to show off his ridiculously pale collarbones under his stretched-out shirt.

Needless to say, Luke is drunk pretty fast.

His previous experiences with alcohol had been limited to sharing a few beers with friends at home, snuck out of their parents’ fridges when they were home alone, feeling brave and grown-up sitting on the back porch.

That had been nothing. This is the real deal.

The world is swirling and his vision blurs together, sound and taste somehow becoming one. Luke is happy. He has fun. The music is good and everyone smiles at him when they meet his eyes and Luke can’t remember the last time it felt like this, he felt like this. At some point, even time becomes blurry and fuzzy around the edges. One moment he’s dancing, then he’s downing the cup Ashley is pushing into his hand. Time passes seamlessly, it could have been hours, minutes, just seconds since he had his first drink. Finally, he finds himself on the ground, his back leaned against something. Somebody. Luke can’t quite make out. It’s warm, and comfortable, and there are stars twinkling above him.

They are less than before, only a handful of people left around him. One of them he recognises as Calum. Calum’s eyes are trained on Luke. Luke tries to smile. He is not sure he succeeds.

“Looks like this one is done for” one of Calum’s friends says. He’s big, with dyed blonde hair, and his arm muscles outrule even Ashton’s. _Nice_ , Luke thinks involuntarily.

He blinks. That’s another side effect of being drunk, he’s apparently. Everyone is attractive all of a sudden.

“Somebody should take him home” the guy says.

“Good idea, Josh. We should all go, I reckon, ‘s getting really late and all” Calum says, stretching his arms over his head. “And if somebody could take that lightweight over there, that’d really be great.”

“I can do that.” the warm lump behind Luke says. That’s interesting.  Luke didn’t know lumps could talk.

There’s movement behind him and Luke startles a bit, his elbows catching him before he hits the ground. He looks up. There is a guy standing above him, black jeans, leather jacket, dyed hair. So _that’s_ what the lump was.

(Luke isn’t even bothered anymore at this point. He just makes a mental note to double-check who the fuck he cuddles against next time he decides to get drunk. Really, this kind of shit has _got_ to stop happening.)

“I can take him” Michael repeats. “We’ve got the same way anyways, it’s not like I’ve gotta take a detour or something.”

“Nah, that’s alright” the other guy leers, British accent thick in his voice. “I’ll happily take him home, ‘s no bother.”

“I’ll do it, thank you very much.” Michael says coldly.

His sharp tone startles Luke. He really wishes Michael would stop being so mean all the time. He’s so cute, it’s really not fair to his face that he makes it pull that frown all the time.

Luke also wishes they’d stop talking about them like he’s not there. But talking requires effort and mouth movement and all sorts of other stuff his drunken self is so not willing to do right now.

“Look, mate, I really-“

“Just fuck off, alright? I told you. He’s min- my roommate. He’s my roommate.” Michael stumbles across his words and glares some more, looking downright furious now.

Luke wonders what all the fuss is about. Surely that guy is just being nice to him, offering to take him home and all that.

One quick look to Michael’s eyes convinces him otherwise.

“Fine, suit yourself.” Blondie says. He gives Luke another quick once-over, then gets up and slings his backpack over his shoulder, leaving without another word.

There is a short silence. Then Calum clears his throat. “Right. We should all get going, I guess.”

 

 

That’s how Luke ends up draped across Michael’s shoulders half an hour later, stumbling down the hall to their room.

Michael smells nice. Like boy and leather and fading traces of beer. And he’s really, really soft. Luke could hold on to his shoulders forever, probably.

His face is also really soft. Smooth lines and plump skin, his skin all white and nice. The hairs on his chin and neck are fuzzy, like those of a cat that wants to be scratched.

“Remove your hand from my face, Hemmings.”

Michael is generally a lot like a cat, Luke has found. Like a very feisty, but also very cute kitten.

Kittens usually like scratches behind the ears, Luke remembers.

“My hair isn’t the place for your hand either. Remove it, or I swear to God I will never ever carry your drunken ass home again.”

Michael pushes open the door to their room and dumps Luke onto his bed.

Luke huffs. He should get a real cat. Real cats don’t treat him like this.

“Please note that you said that out loud.” Michael says in an incredibly bored tone, grabbing his toothbrush and leaving for the bathrooms.

Luke stares into the dark. He is calm all of a sudden, collected. His body feels so calm, he could float right out of the window and he wouldn’t notice. It’s nice. Luke hums for a bit, likes feeling the vibrations in his throat. A thought makes his way into his brain. A nice thought, one that makes him warm and fuzzy.

Michael _smiled_ today. Michael is being _nice_ to him.

Luke stares at him when he comes back.

“Why are you being so _nice_ to me?” he asks. His voice is a lot calmer than it’s been for the last couple of hours.

Michael throws him a look Luke can’t quite decipher. Then he rolls his eyes and flops down onto his own bed. “Go to sleep, Hemmo.”

Luke wordlessly turns over and obeys.

The nickname rings in his ears until he falls asleep.

 

\-------------------

 

When Luke wakes the next morning, he immediately wishes he didn’t.

He feels like his head is being shredded. He is aching, his eyelids feel like they are burning from the inside and there is a constant pounding and throbbing behind his ears and all the way through his skull.

It could also be related to the fact that there is literal shredding going on in his room right now.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Michael screams over the loud punk music blaring out of his speakers. He’s air-guitaring and grinning brightly, the fucker.

 “Wha’… Turn this shit off!” he whines, sitting up straight in his bed and holding his head.

Michael does another particularly screeching riff.

Luke flops back down and mushes his face into a pillow. He tries to recollect his memory from last night. There was alcohol, that’s for sure. There were also people, and music, and Chrissy had _really_ great eyeliner. He vaguely recalls something about an argument

“This hangover is killer. Killer, I tell you. What even happened last night, I don’t fucking know” he groans, voice muted by his pillow.

Surprisingly, Michael turns his music off.

“You don’t remember?”

“Nah, should I? Did anything interesting happen?” Luke raises his head. “I didn’t make out with anyone, did I.”

Michael gives him a weird look. Somewhere between relieved and off-put, although this might just be Luke’s hangover seeing things. “It… Nothing. Nothing of interest happened, really.” He gives him a sly smile. “You were drunk out of your mind, though.”

Luke groans again.

“I feel like it.”

Michael shrugs.

“Class is in ten minutes. Get dressed and drag your ugly ass downstairs.” he says. And just like that, he’s out of the room in one swift motion, slamming the door shut behind him.

Luke groans for the third time.

(The fact that this might just have been the most normal conversation they’ve ever had completely passes his mind.)

Hangover’s a bitch.

 

\-------------------

 

Things go on, after that.

And as things do, they become easier with time.

Michael begins to not glare at him every single time he walks into a room. He even talks to him sometimes, like actual normal people do.

He’s less moody, less snarky, less aggressive. He spends more time in their room, sometimes even goes an entire week without staying away somewhere overnight. He even picks up his boots sometimes.

It’s not perfect, but Luke reminds himself that it is the little things that make big steps. Just little things, that he won’t ever let slip out of his mouth.

_But if I do, it’s you, oh it’s you they add up to…_

God fucking dammit. Luke will never get this song out of his head now.

 

\---------------------

 

Writing, Luke has found, is even harder to do when there is a mental, mostly-moody menace sitting in his room, listening to every sound he makes. (He mentally congratulates himself on the alliteration.)

There is a storm outside, thunder, lightning, all that jazz. The rain is literally hammering onto the window, which has led to the unfortunate result that Michael is trapped inside doing school work. Luke had never thought he’d see the day Michael actually took a pen in hand, but apparently miracles do happen.

Normally it’s so easy for Luke to lose himself in his music, to just let his fingers and the chords to their thing, just letting everything out and transforming it into sound and melody. The added rhythm of the rain would normally make him feel even more comfortable, safe, a constant companion that keeps time. Now, though, he feels disturbed, like his secret hiding place has been stolen, invaded by someone that shouldn’t be here. He is self-conscious of every move he makes, his fingers tug on the strings tentatively, quietly, as if in hope of not being noticed.

Which is bullshit, of course. Michael had noticed him from the second he sat down with his guitar, giving him a frown and a scoff before returning to his books.

Luke still tries to be as inconspicuous as possible. He strikes his chords calmly, controlled, humming under his breath. He’s gotta get this cover done till Friday, god dammit, or his professor might actually kill him. Not even an invasive roommate is going to stop him.

He hums again, quietly, taking up the song he’s had stuck in his head for weeks. Annoying songs are best dealt with by covering them, he has found out.

“ _And I’m joining up the dots with the freckles on your cheeks, and it all makes sense to me…_ ”

“Really, Hemmings? One fucking Direction?”

Luke’s head snaps up and immediately turns beet red. So much for inconspicuousness.

“I’ve gotta get this cover done till Friday” he murmurs.

Michael has swung around on his chair, sitting with his legs open and stares at him with a mocking, gleeful expression.

“Well that song sucks ass.”

Luke glares at him. “I like it, thank you very much.”

Michael chuckles. “It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but you’ll never blow anyone away with that. Aren’t you a supposed music genius or something? Don’t you have anything original to play?”

Luke stares at the floor. He does, and he had thought about it once or twice, but he’d never considered anything of him good enough to play in class. There’s _people_ there. His _teacher_. He cannot fuck this up.

“I dunno. Don’t really think my stuff is good enough, like-“

“Bull-fucking-shit.” Michael interrupts him. “Play me some. We’ll see about that.”

Luke glares at him. He can _not_ be serious. Luke can’t even play his own stuff in front of his classmates, how would he ever be able to show Michael anything?

Michael glares back. And damn, that boy can glare. Luke feels his skin prickle under his eyes, can feel his resistance falter. Is this what ants feel like under a magnifying glass? Probably. Luke suddenly feels bad for every ant he’s ever inspected when he was a kid.

Finally, he caves in and pulls out a few sheets from under his bed.

Michael pumps his fist and throws himself onto his bed, books falling down to the floor, forgotten.

Luke shudders inwardly and closes his eyes. This is not gonna go well. What if it’s shit. What if Michael thinks he sucks. What if he makes fun of him. What if he interrupts him after the first verses and throws him out and tells him to go find a new roommate and how will Luke survive this, he just got used to Michael, he can’t throw him out now, he-

 “Hey, you starting anytime soon then?”

Luke opens his eyes.

No backing down now.

Tentatively, he touches his fingers to the fret of his guitar, sets his eyes on a fixed point above Michael’s head and starts singing.

When his voice rings out three minutes later, Michael is staring at him. Luke can’t quite figure out what kind of stare this is, an awestruck stare or a shocked stare or an oh-my-god-what-the-fuck stare. Probably not an I’m-throwing-you-out-of-our-room stare though, which is a plus.

There is a long silence, then Luke clears his throat. “So, uhmm… Did you, like… Like it?”

Michael’s head snaps up, like he’s coming back from a distant thought. “Wha’, I, uh… Yeah, like. Yeah, I mean, ‘s was alright, I guess.”

Luke’s brow furrows. He was more than alright, thank you very much.

“The melody was good, okay. No worries there.” Michael says to the floor.

There is a small pause and he looks like he’s arguing with himself for a second, like he can’t bring the words to leave his lips, then he blurts out: “You’ve, uh, got quite the talent.”

Luke is dumbstruck. Aside from the fact that that may be the nicest thing Michael has ever said to him, it’s also the nicest thing Michael has ever said to him _and he is talking about his music_. Luke doesn’t move a muscle.

“Th- thanks?”

There is a short silence.

“The lyrics were a bit shit, though.” Michael grins.

Luke breathes out a barking laugh, relieved to be back to the usual teasing and mocking, away from the thin ice they’d set foot on for a second.

“Shut up.”

“No, no, really though, Hemmings. ‘ _You end up crying, and I end up lying_ ’? What did you write this with, a rhyme book?” He chuckles. “Not exactly original. However-”

“Shut the fuck up, Clifford. I’d like to see you do better.” Luke interjects.

Michael glances at him, his usual smirk returning to his features. “Let me finish, young padawan. _However_ , I might be able to help you with that.”

 

\-------------------

 

One hour later finds Luke and Michael on the floor of their room, covered in sheets and notes.

After a few minutes of persuasion and with the help of a threatening glare her and there, Michael had managed to get hold of most of Luke’s notes and is now bowed over them in a corner, scribbling away with a felt-tip pen and tapping out rhythms from time to time.

(“Who even uses felt-tip pens anymore?”

“I do, Hemmings, now shut your cakehole. They’re punk.”

“They’re not punk. That one looks like you found it in the hallway. Is that dirt on the lid?”

“ _Punk_.”)

Luke had been anxious at first. Giving away his sheet notes had felt like a father giving up his children, like if he would share them he’d lose them in some way, and they’d come back changed, altered, not _his_ anymore. It had felt like giving up a part to himself, to Michael of all people. Michael, whom he had felt drawn to from the second they first met but who kept pushing him away, building up wall after wall after wall between them. Who would ignore him for days on end, only speaking to him to mock him. Who would occasionally show signs of kindness, amity even, only to confuse Luke even more when he then went back to his usual teasing. So yeah, Luke had been anxious.

That was, until he had got back one of the sheets Michael had taken a look at.

It turns out that he is a little bit of a genius.

He hadn’t changed anything in terms of the melody or the chord progressions. Everything stood as Luke had written it. It were the lyrics he’d had his hand at. His words had been scratched, regrouped, re-organised until they were barely even recognisable anymore. But for the first time ever, they were _good_.

Where there had been dull, meaningless phrases before, Michael had fit glamour, substance, expressions that Luke wouldn’t have thought of in his wildest dreams. Where Luke had rhymed just for rhymes’ sake, just to make his melody sound like something, Michael had fit new words, bold couplets and verses that dance in Luke’s mind. Where his words had felt old and bleak, Michael had found new meaning and given them a new coat. It was like magic had awakened right before Luke’s eyes, flowed into his music and made itself a nest there.

He was, in short, completely and utterly in love.

“How did you even think of all this stuff, Jesus Christ?”, Luke asks, staring down at another page of new lyrics.

“Just Michael will do, thanks.” the other boy snickers.

Luke rolls his eyes demonstratively. “No, seriously. ‘ _Even though my dizzy head is numb/I swear my heart is never giving up’_? That’s kinda awesome. Do you like, keep a diary with all your poems?”

Michael smirks and turns back to his sheets. “Maybe I do, Hemmings. Maybe I do.”

Luke stares at him. The thought of Michael, big punk Michael with his combat boots and his dyed hair, actually keeping a diary like a middle-school girl is so ridiculous that he can’t help but believe it at least a little bit.

“Does it have glitter on it?”

Michael throws a piece of paper at him.

Luke chuckles and goes back to his notes. Absent-mindedly, he plucks at a few strings on his guitar, mentally fitting in the new lyrics. It sounds good in his head.

Maybe this could actually become something worth keeping.

( _Are you sure you’re talking about the song?,_ his brain unhelpfully supplies.

Luke doesn’t even have the energy to tell it to shut up anymore.)

He sighs, smiles and strikes the first chord.

 

\---------------------

 

Writing becomes routine, after that. It becomes a part of the unsteady thing that is Them.

If Luke’s life were a teen movie, this would probably be the part where the editors would insert a neat montage of him and Michael becoming bros for life. Pretty pictures with warm colours, sunlight drifting in through their too-small window, lighting up the room and creating a halo behind Michael’s fluffy hair. They would write songs all day every day and everything would be colourful, vibrant and accompanied by upbeat ukulele music.

However, Luke’s life is not a teen movie. November has come, and there is no sunlight, only grey and grey and even darker grey. The only thing drifting in through their window is the sound of the school’s shitty band practising in the yard in lieu of an auditorium, and the only Halo he gets to see is the one on Michael’s Xbox.

And they aren’t ‘bros for life’, no matter what Calum says.

“But you’re so _cuuute_ ”, he whines over lunch one day, dragging out the ‘u’ and scrunching up his face until Luke fears he might get stuck on the expression forever.

“We’re not cute, Calum. We’re two guys in our twenties, not little girls in elementary school. We’re like, grown up and stuff.” Luke responds.

Calum raises an eyebrow. “Please. The other day _I_ had to help you out because you dropped your pick into your guitar again and couldn’t get it out, just because your boyfriend wasn’t here to do it.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Brofriend, then.” Calum fires back. “Life partner. Roommate with benefits. Musical associate. Regular toner-giver.”

“He’s not my anything, shut up.” Luke grabs. “Also, stop quoting Pitch Perfect, you nerd.”

“I can see your toner through your jeans!” Calum shouts after him, but Luke keeps on walking.

The thing is, Luke would love to continue to be very much in denial of everything related to Michael Clifford ever. He would love to be able to carry on his life just as it was before that purple-haired menace decided to worm his way into Luke’s life, writing songs and being alone in the comfortable loneliness of his own four walls. But the truth is, even he can see his resolve slowly fall.

He’s just so _great_.

His writing talent lives up to its promise. They write together regularly now, Luke showing him ideas that he had and Michael picking them apart, throwing pieces in and out until everything fits together. Luke catches himself staring at him more often than not when they work. His lips, plump pink and thick, move quickly and breathlessly, talking about rhymes and chords and messages, and Luke can’t help but imagine them in other scenarios. Lips on smooth skin, lips on lips, hot breath moving over stubble and neck and chest, down down all the way to down till-

Till Michael snaps his fingers in front of his gazing face, usually.

It has also turned out that he plays the guitar as well. Of course. As if Luke would need any more reason to think about those hands of his more than he already does. Deft and agile on the fret of his guitar, always moving, creating those wonderful sounds with precise care. Caressing, almost. Luke has to look away more than once, or their songwriting sessions would have very quickly ended in something very, very different.

Or would they? That’s the question Luke is still gnawing on. Has been gnawing on for weeks, months maybe.

The insecurity of the nature of their relationship sits deep within Luke’s mind. It’s unsteady, shaky, a wobbly thing that looks beautiful but has tiny invisible fangs, waiting for a bite.

It feels like it’s eating him up from the inside, sometimes. At night, when he can just hear the slow breaths coming from the other bed, a constant reminder that Michael is _there_ , always there, whether he wants it or not. When he can’t block out the thoughts in his head with music or school or the half-hearted banter they keep up. And sometimes all he’s left with is to silently scream into his pillow until his throat aches, or to press his hands against his ears in hope of blocking out his own mind, or to just wrap his shaking hands around his dick and pray to whatever deity that Michael won’t hear him, won’t hear the slick sounds coming from Luke’s bed. Luke has never been more grateful he’s a silent comer than in those last few weeks.

They’re always dancing right on the edge, is the thing. Always in between something. Between cold hate and vehemently denied attraction, at first. Between attraction and fascination, then. Now, between fascination and friendship and something more, something deeper. Something Luke can never quite put his finger on, but he hopes fiercely, painfully is reciprocated.

He wishes with every fibre of his being something would just _happen_ , anything to push them over the edge, in whatever direction.

When Luke had been 12, he had visited his cousin once. She had owned a dog, a cute, but nasty thing, a guard dog that would always sit next to the door when Luke came in. It would never do anything. It would just sit there silently, undeterred and unbothered, every day and night. Its red eyes would burn daggers into Luke’s skin when his back was turned, always watching, always waiting.

Luke had felt like a rabbit next to it. It was the only way he could have possibly described the feeling. Like a small, fragile rabbit waiting to be hunted down, waiting to be dealt with.

Staring down the eyes of the beast and waiting for something, anything to happen.

Luke had never felt more like his insecure 12-year-old rabbit than now.

 

\---------------------

 

The bad thing about desperately wishing for something to happen is that usually, your wish comes true.

When Luke comes home one day from class and enters their building (and Luke thinks in ‘theirs’ now, not ‘his’, that’s how fucking far gone he is), he immediately feels as is something is off. Like someone just came into your house and moved all your furniture an inch to the side without you noticing.

When he walks up the stairs to their room, he hears voices. Which is nothing unusual in itself, a building inhabited by college students only usually has some volume 24/7. Only the voices seem to be coming from their room.

Luke walks up to their door, that old ugly thing with the plastic coating he curses ever day of his life, and then he hears them. And Luke does not mean to eavesdrop, he really does not.

But the door is open and they’re talking audibly and Luke’s almost entirely sure he’s just heard his name in there somewhere. Also, he is a nosy son of a bitch sometimes.

So sue him.

“-got to tell him some time, Jesus Christ.”

“Says who.”

 _Says Ashton Irwin_ , Luke replies mentally. He’d recognize that bright voice anywhere.

“I do.” Ashton says. “You can’t keep stuff bottled up inside you, mate, that’s so not healthy.”

“Your face is not healthy” Michael mutters snappishly in return.

“My face is awesome, thank you very much. But seriously, what the hell? Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? This changes so much, we could have done something way earlier.”

“Maybe I didn’t wanna do something, alright? Maybe I still don’t wanna!” Michael sounds more pissed by the minute.

Luke just wishes he knew what they’re talking about. What could they have done something about? Who exactly does Michael have to tell what?

“Whatever. Forget it. I wish I’d never said anything.”

Luke can’t take it anymore. He leans forward slightly and sneaks a glance into the room. He spots Ashton sitting on his bed, pulling his curls in frustration.

“Just fucking admit it! You’re head over heels for that boy! Ever since he came along with his cute blond hair and his cute guitar you’ve literally not shut up about him!”

Luke immediately retreats, suddenly feeling sick.

Oh shit. Oh _fucking shit_.

“Shut the fuck _up_ , Ashton” Michael growls.

“No. Say it. Say ‘I like Luke Hemmings’.”

Luke’s stomach falls through the floor.

“Fuck off, no.”

“It’s not that hard!”

“No.”

“Come on!” Ashton whines.

With that, Michael loses his temper.

 “SHUT. UP. I don’t care about him, alright?!” he shouts, voice doubling over. “I don’t give a fuck what he does, he can do whatever! I don’t fucking like him, I never did, and I fucking wish I never talked to you in the first place! I don’t _care_ about him!”

“Michael.” Ashton’s voice is quiet all of a sudden.

“No, don’t fucking try to lecture me again, Irwin. I don’t care. Got it? I. Do No. Fucking. _Care_.”

“No. Seriously. Michael.” Ashton says, pointing behind him.

Startled, Michael looks to the door.

And suddenly, Luke’s world goes deaf.

There is a ringing in his ears that is blocking out all the other sounds around him. The honking of the cars outside, the birds that are nesting next to their window, the sound of Michael’s voice telling him to stay. It blocks it all out.

He feels like he’s dropping off something very high, doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t hear anything. Like his senses are in free fall.

Luke doesn’t cry. He doesn’t quiver or waver or even make a sound.

He turns around and runs. Runs till his feet won’t carry him anymore, runs down the hallway and down the stairs, across the yard and past the school gates, runs and runs and runs. His feet beat down on winter-cold concrete, a painful percussion that doesn’t reach his ears. His soles hurt and his lungs hurt and his chest aches with its weight, with the shock of the last few minutes and Luke runs. Faster and faster and fast, escaping Michael’s appalled look he can still feel on the back of his head, escaping his own body until he feels like nothing more than a memory, an echo resonating painfully within his soul.

At some point, his feet give out underneath him and he collapses on a street somewhere in the city, his ass burning where he hits the hard concrete. He drags himself into a side alley and just lies there, feet burning, head spinning. He lies and waits for the sounds to return.

But they don’t.

A static filter is spread over everything, muting his world, making every sound dulled and damped and uncomfortable. Luke tries a melody and stops after the first few notes, his voice failing. He doesn’t recognize himself. His voice sounds dull and broken, feeble like a man who hasn’t spoken in years, cracking at the lightest strain. It sounds like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.

Luke doesn’t return to his dorm room until the next morning.

 

\---------------------

 

Afterwards, there is silence. Just minutes and hours and days of silence and nothingness.

Some say silence is painful. Some say it is sharp, like a knife, cutting you to the bone. The CDs in Calum’s enormous collection say 'quiet is violent'.

They’re all wrong.

Silence is viscous. It creeps into your every notch, every corner of your existence. It seeps into your mind and into your thoughts, it floods your brain and even fills up the notches there. It will seep until every move you make is dulled, taken the edge off, until your life is nothing but repetitive routine motions over and over again. It dulls your eyes and duct-tapes your mouth, and it breaks and bruises every trace of happiness that’s left in you.

Luke’s world is silence, and Michael doesn’t speak to him, evades his eyes, leaves a room before Luke has even set proper foot through the door. Michael doesn’t speak to him, and Luke’s silence drags him deeper and deeper.

It cuts him deep within, going through his insides like a knife through butter, seamlessly and painlessly. He barely even feels it.

His days become duller, his posture shrinks, like he’s trying to drown in his quiet, fitting all of his six foot body into one tiny invisible space. He stares at the white walls in class, spots dancing in front of his eyes, occasionally taking down a note or two on autopilot. His memory of what he’s just written down flees his mind as soon as his eyes leave the paper. He doesn’t hear his teachers anymore, their mouths moving like fish blowing bubbles under the sea.

He barely even goes home anymore, afraid of the deafening silence waiting in his room, of the cloud of nothingness and rejection hanging above his bed. Michael doesn’t either. Luke doesn’t know whether to be glad or not.

He mostly hangs out at Calum’s now, lying on his bed, listening to music. They cuddle a lot. Luke pressed close, wrapped up around Calum, holding on tight while Calum does school work or plays games on his phone. His hands stroke over Luke’s back, big and warm and comforting. Ashton gave them a look once and Calum simply shot one back, silent and shaking his head, communicating in that weird mind reading language of theirs again. Luke is glad that Calum knows they’re not like that. Calum keeps him comfort, like a warm blanket that protects him from the outside world, for a time. Luke is grateful for his friends, even if they make the silence only a little bit more bearable.

His guitar gains dust flakes.

Luke spots them one day when he’s back in his room, picking up some books.

He brushes them off half-heartedly, puts his instrument back into its holder and goes on with his life.

 

\---------------------

 

“You need to go out” Calum says.

Luke says nothing.

“We love you, man, but you need to stop pining” Ashton says. “Move on.”

Luke says nothing.

“That dick didn’t deserve you in the first place, and neither did his dick” Ashley says, outspoken and to the point as always.

Luke remains quiet.

Chrissy gives him a back massage, worry big in her eyes.

They all mean well, and Luke loves them dearly.

But the silence remains.

 

\---------------------

 

The way Luke sees it, there’s different levels of days in life. There’s really, really good days, regular good days, mediocre days, kinda-ugh-blergh days and shit days.

It is late December, just weeks before everyone is going home on holiday, and Luke is having a particularly shit day.

He had felt like crap from the second he’d got up. His eyes feel bleary, his limbs weak and there is an uncomfortable numb humming in his head that would keep up all day. It is not a headache, even though he’d had enough of those in the past few weeks, but the promise of one, an irksome feeling that would keep him irritated for the rest of the day.

He has to command himself to go by his days by now. It sounds cruel, but actually works pretty well for him.

Get up. Get out of bed. Put your clothes on. Brush your teeth. Eat something. Yes, that too.

Go to class. Don’t fall asleep. Take some notes, you should have raised your hand at least once by now. Don’t fall asleep.

Go to the library. Drink something, stay hydrated. Go to Calum’s. Make sure you eat. Take your meds. Go to sleep.

It’s easy, no thinking involved. Taking care of himself like he would take care of a machine that has to be kept working.

He does most of his motions subconsciously, on autopilot, usually. But today, today is hard. Today, he thinks about every little thing he does. Every tiny detail springs to his eye, burning in his mind. Nothing can be ignored. The way his shirt scratches on his shoulders every time he makes a move. The itch at the back of his neck that always feels wrong no matter how many time he scratches it. The raised eyebrow of his Music Composition professor, and the tiny hair in it that grows the wrong way and that Luke desperately wants to fix.

Luke already feels like clawing his skin off by the time the first break rolls around.

He sits through another class. And another. And another. He could go home, he supposes, it’s not like any of the underpaid teachers at this school actually keep track of their students’ attendance. But he doesn’t. He has to learn. He has to get some _goddamn knowledge_ into that _stupid little_ brain of his, dammit.

His leg is jiggling underneath the desk. He feels like he can’t remember a time where his leg wasn’t jiggling, where his fingers weren’t shaking, where his eyes didn’t burn. The chalk of his professor is scratching and creaking against the old blackboard. It makes him want to cover his ears and scream until the chalk has dissolved into fine dust.

When the bell rings, Luke is out of the lecture hall before his professor has even finished writing.

He walks out of the building and into the late December sun outside. It doesn’t get better. He’s fidgety, irritated, wandering around aimlessly, in search of something, anything, he doesn’t know what. He has to keep moving, stopping feels wrong, feels like giving up.

(What Luke would be giving up upon, he doesn’t even know.)

After a while, he realizes he’s just been walking around in circles in the back yard, aimlessly, senselessly. His bag is heavy on his left shoulder. It feels odd. Luke switches to his other shoulder, switches to both shoulders, wants to scratch at his skin. Throws his backpack to the ground.

There’s footsteps behind him.

“Hemmings?”

Oh _fuck_. Luke whips around, his eyes open wide. Panic, he’s panicking, he can feel it. Feel his throat getting tighter, his breath picking up.

( _You’ve been like this all day_ , a voice inside his head tells him. Luke doesn’t hear it.)

He knows that voice, knows it better than he wants to.

Michael is walking towards him, his hair blowing in the wind.

He dyed it red recently. It looks good, a striking contrast to his pale white skin and black clothes. It makes him look older, makes him even more of an eye-catcher. Luke wants to scream.

“Hey, are you alright?”

His voice is soft, sounding genuinely concerned. Luke feels like throwing up. _No_ , he wants to scream, _no, I’m not alright_.

“Please go.” he tells him instead. His voice is surprisingly strong.

Michael reaches him, holding out a tentative hand. “Dude. Seriously, what is up with you, you do _not_ look good.” He touches Luke’s arm. Luke flinches, curls his fists, sinks his nails into the balls of his hand until they feel scarred.

“I’m fine.”

“No, seriously tell me. You sure you’re-“

“I said I’m _FINE_!!“

Luke is surprised at the volume of his own voice. It feels like a dam breaking inside of him. Suddenly there’s words and volume and a _voice_ and god, if Luke is not going to use it.

“I’m fucking _fine_ , aren’t? I’m always fucking fine, I’m the king of fine, to you, aren’t I? Because it’s not like you’d _care_. You do not _care_ about me, Michael Clifford. You’re just such a fucking asshole. You are literally the biggest asshole I’ve ever had to meet in my life. From the minute we met, you hated me and you mocked me and you told me up from the very first second you didn’t want me in your life.” He’s properly yelling now, his tone taking on a snide and desperate tone, but he can’t bring himself to stop.

“And then, suddenly, you fucking did. You talked to me, you hung out with me, you fucking _pretended to like me_ for your own amusement. I wrote _songs_ with you. I poured my goddamn heart out in front of you and you _stepped_ on it. You don’t care, Michael, you’ve said so yourself. You’re mean, and you’re rude, and you couldn’t give a damn if you tried.” He takes a deep breath.

“So don’t ask me how I’m feeling. Why the fuck would you care now.”

Michael just looks at him. There is something big and quiet in his eyes, something Luke can’t decipher.

There is a long pause. Then Michael gulps, “Are you done?”

Luke just stares at him, panting. His hands are still balled up to fists, vibrating with tension.

“Good.”

Michael exhales. Then, after a short pause, he says “Let me tell you something. What I said that day, what you heard? I’m sorry about that. I really am. I said it out of anger, out of confusion.” He runs a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up messily at the front. “I was confused, alright? He cornered me and I didn’t know what to say and I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, Luke, and I know that. Trust me, I know.

“But you. You don’t get to be like this. You can’t fucking be like this, you can’t! You don’t-” he stops, frantically stumbling over his words. He inhales shakily, tentatively, like he’s making a decision. Luke spots a slight tremble in his fingers.

And then Michael explodes.

“You don’t DESERVE this!! You’re _Luke fucking Hemmings_ , you’re golden, you’re the most talented little shit I’ve ever had to meet in my life! You’re special and you’re fuck, you’re beautiful yes you are, and I just, I won’t! I won’t stand for this, I won’t see you like this anymore, _fuck_ , FUCK!” He screams the word like a curse sitting on his tongue, like something that’s escaping after having been bottled up for too long.

“ _Fuck_ you so much. I carried you. I fucking _carried you_ , that night, when you were drunk off your ass and that Josh guy tried to get with you. I, _I_ took care of you! I put you to bed. I got you home safe, I fucking _protected_ you!  So don’t tell me again that I don’t want you in my life. I fucking do, and you have got to know that. And don’t you ever. Ever! Tell me that I don’t care, you utter bastard.”

There is possibly the longest pause Luke has ever experienced in his life.

(That had also been possibly the biggest amount of swearing Luke has ever experienced in his life, but he’s ready to overlook that fact.)

Michael looks shaken, exhausted, his shoulders slouching like he just loaded all the shit of the past few weeks right onto the ground to their feet.

It springs to Luke’s mind that he might not have been the only one suffering.

“Wow, so. Uhmm.” He manages.

“Yeah.”

“Okay so. That, uh, happened.” Luke stutters.

“How do, uh, how do you feel?”

“Let me, like, think about this for a second maybe? Because you, uh. You just said a bunch of stuff I was not expecting and I don’t really know how to deal right now, sort of?”

Michael nods, understanding. Luke internally hugs him.

“Because you, I guess you were right. I wasn’t really fine. I don’t think I’m really fine right now. And I need to come down, sort of.”

“Yeah.”

“Promise me we’ll talk about this, though, because well”, he lets out a shaky laugh, nervous all of a sudden. “Holy shit.”

Michael cocks a shy smile. “ ‘S alright. We’ll talk, Luke. We will talk.”

 

\---------------------

 

And they do.

Crammed up in their room again an hour later, the very first thing Luke does is put on some Ed Sheeran. Ed has never let him down, and he won’t let him down now.

And while the Englishman croons about headbands he found on floors and girls in pretty dresses, Michael and Luke talk.

It’s not the prettiest thing Luke’s ever done. It’s not the proudest, or most confident, or even most elaborate.

But it’s certainly the most relieving.

He tells Michael about everything that’s happened to him these past few weeks. He tells him about the things he’s heard, the things he wishes he didn’t, and what happened after. He tells him about his apathy, about his panic. He even tells him about the silence.

In a billion years, Luke wouldn’t have thought he’d ever see Michael cry, or even show any emotion at all. But apparently, he’s proven wrong quite often these days.

When Luke is finished, Michael extends a tentative arm. And Luke does the second thing he’d never thought he would ever do in a billion years.

He hugs Luke.

And Luke just caves in, curls up next to Michael and Michael holds him tight, arms strong around his back, lowering him into his lap. Luke stays there, face buried into the bottom of Michael’s shirt, taking in the smell of cotton and boy and _Michael_.

“I didn’t, at first, you know.” Michael says after a while. “Like you, I mean. At least, I think that’s what I convinced myself of. That I didn’t like you, not at all, so I wouldn’t have to face what I really felt.”

His words sound a bit stiff, a bit rehearsed, like Michael practised them in front of a mirror over and over again. Luke can’t say he particularly minds. They’re honest, then. Thought about, carefully picked out to convey what he really means. Luke snuggles even closer in appreciation.

“Truth is, I was head over heels. Totally fucked, from the very first second. Right from the second you walked through that door.” Michael nods to the ugly ass thing that dares call itself a door and Luke scrunches up his nose. Michael snickers.

“Same. But anyways. So, I was crushing, right? Hardcore. And it scared me shitless.”

His hands, previously roaming Luke’s hair, still.

“I’d never felt that way about anyone before. I’d barely had crushes before, let alone a relationship, and I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never been super awesome at feelings. Others’, yeah. But not really my own.”

 _Same_ , Luke wants to say. But no sound makes it over his lips.

“So, I was shitty. I rejected you, I tried to block you out from anything I did because I was afraid I might accidentally confess my feelings to you, or that you’d just, I don’t know, look at me and magically see how I felt. I don’t know. It’s super dumb.” He laughs nervously.

“But it go harder with time, you know? Because you were just, well, you were just so damn cute. And then I found out about your songwriting thing, and my brain was just like ‘get this’. And it basically all went downhill from there. Or uphill, I guess, depending how you see it.

And then the thing with Ash happened. I told him about me, you know, I told him that I think I might have feelings or something for you, and he was. Well, you heard it. He was over the moon. Apparently he and Calum had been taking bets on how long it would take us to finally get our shit together, can you believe that?”

“Absolutely” Luke says immediately.

Michael laughs. “Anyways. He was thrilled and he got all excited and it just, well it scared me even more, you know? It’s not even really his fault, that’s just the way he is, but him holding up all my feelings to me was… Well. You see what happened. I freaked. And then you freaked. And then it was just a fucking freaky mess all around.”

“ _Le freak, c’est chic…_ ” Luke automatically mumbles from down in his lap. Michael groans and punches him lightly in the arm.

“Glad to see our brief period of Not Speaking didn’t severely affect your ability to make the worst jokes ever, Hemmo.”

“It was a reference, actually.”

“I don’t care what it was, it freakin’ sucked.”

They grin at each other for a moment. And Luke has never felt better about anyone teasing him ever, glad to be back in their usual comfortable banter.

“So… We’re good?”

Michael’s voice is tender, careful, like he himself can’t quite believe it yet. Luke turns around in his lap, sitting up and facing the red-haired boy.

He thinks about everything that’s happened the past few months. It runs through his mind like a montage in a film, starting slow and getting quicker. The boots in the hallway, the liquor at Calum’s, Josh, Michael, the rewritten songs currently lying under his bed, the light teasing, Michael, the silence, Michael, Michael, Michael.

And for once in his life, Luke decides to be brave.

He leans forward and kisses Michael square on the mouth.

It’s nothing, really. A brief touch of their lips, barely enough to taste a hint of him. When he opens his eyes again, Michael is staring at him. Immediately thoughts begin running through his mind, oh shit, what if he fucked up, what if this was the exact wrong thing to do, what-

And the next thing he feels is lips on his again, and his eyes slip closed own their own accord. He savours the feeling and it’s so, so good, Michael’s lips sliding over his, wet and plush under his own. He opens his mouth a little and Michael slips just the barest hint of tongue, the lightest shadow of teeth on his bottom lip.

Their lips separate again, but they stay closed together, their foreheads touching.

“Yeah, Mike. We’re good.” He says, their heads knocked together and grinning at each other like idiots.

Ed Sheeran sings about a girl he’s been in love with since grade eight and Luke is curled up in Michael and for the first time in months, he’s perfectly, perfectly fine.

 

\---------------------

 

Writing becomes an obsession, after that.

They work in perfect sync, like a machine, like a two-headed beast of creativity and sound. Luke finds new chords and beats and harmonies every day and Michael adorns them with his words, fitting poetry to melody and syntax to bass line.

Writing with Michael feels right. Feels perfect, feels ecstatic, catching up on all the time they missed when they were Not Speaking.

Writing with Michael makes Luke feel as if he were born to do exactly that, sitting on a much too small bedroom floor in a shitty room at a shitty music school, covered in sheet music and scribbled notes of words and chords.

He even gets to hear Michael’s singing voice, occasionally. And holy shit, where was the guy hiding _that_. Luke doesn’t breathe for like, a minute when he hears him do the riffs in Amy Winehouse’s ‘Valerie’ for the first time.

Michael also doesn’t breathe for a minute, or more, or however long it takes for Luke to kiss the shit out of him, right there on their bedroom floor.

(It’s more than a minute.)

Luke has quite possibly never been happier.

He learns to not turn his head away when he’s sneaking a glance at Michael and is met with bright green eyes looking at him already. He learns to not steal little moments of happiness anymore, but take them when they are offered, enjoy them and cherish them. The glow on Michael’s white skin in the winter light drifting in through their window. His laugh, bright and giggly, his face all scrunched up and cute. His face when Luke makes a bad joke, demonstratively unimpressed while Luke is shaking with laughter next to him.

(“What’s the cheese that’s not yours?”

“I don’t give a shit, Hemmings, fuck off.”

“ _Nacho cheese_.”

“I literally hate you so much.”

“You love me.”

“I really, really fucking don’t.”)

(He does, in fact.)

Luke learns that he is allowed to have this now, this thing that is them. He is allowed to have even the simple things he denied himself before, things like just taking Michael’s hand whenever he feels like it, enjoying his warmth and the steady weight of it in his palm. Things like lying with his head on Michael’s lap, his hands stroking his hair, both reading or playing games or just talking, talking for hours on end.

Things like attacking Michael’s impossibly pale neck with kisses and bruising it, marking it purple and blue and _his_. That’s a thing that’s been happening, too.

They’ve not gone further than that yet. Both too tentative, too careful with this new thing they have to jump into the deep end right away. They kiss. And make out. And make out some more.

“No, seriously, when are you guys ever not making out?” Ashton asks with a roll of his eyes one day when Luke accidentally brings up the subject. “Your lips must be falling off by now, Jesus Christ. I can’t imagine what that must even be like, to have another person so permanently attached to you.”

Luke raises an eyebrow and wordlessly points to the fading brown mark on Ashton’s neck. The older boy hisses and turns bright red.

“That’s uh, nothing.”

“That’s from Calum, isn’t it.”

“I’m not sleeping with Calum.”

“That seems suspiciously like something someone sleeping with Calum would say.”

Ashton whacks him on the head, still blushing fiercely.

Luke grins, ruffles Ashton’s curls and hops off to look for Michael.

 

\---------------------

 

Three weeks later has Luke sitting in front of his sheets again. As he does. Seemingly every freaking minute of his life, these days.

He’s bent over The Song again, the dreadful song, the unfathomable monster of a song he was stressing out over weeks ago, when Ash came to pick him up for Calum’s park thing.

(He goes there regularly now, sometimes only to see Cal and Ash dancing around each other, trying not to be too obvious of their (incredibly obvious) friends-with-benefits-with-feelings situation.)

There’s this one bit, this one last line in the chorus that’s bugging him. It’s not right, it just feels off, and Luke can never get it to work no matter how many times he tries. No matter how many different solutions he tries to find, it never fits perfectly.

And it’s driving him the fuck _insane_.

The words on his pages are dancing in front of his eyes, mocking him.

_Sometimes everything comes different than you’d think_

_Sometimes this different is good_

_Cause sometimes this different makes you whole_

Luke groans and drops his head onto the floor, closing his eyes, spreading out on the scattered sheets like a giant pancake.

That’s how he feels. Like a giant, useless pancake.

Maybe he can just lie here forever. Maybe he can be a pancake. Pancakes don’t have to worry about songwriting. Pancakes can just lie there, not care about a thing and get eaten eventually.

As if on cue, Michael walks in.

“Michaelll,” Luke whines. “Eat me.”

“Gladly,” Michael says without batting an eye. “What’s up?”

Luke opens one eye and stares up at him. He’s wearing this damn sweater again, the white one that goes over his hands and makes him all cute and kittenish. Maybe Luke will change his plans. Maybe Luke will eat him instead.

“Writing troubles again, Hemmo?” Michael says when Luke doesn’t respond.

Luke groans again.

“That song I’ve worked on ages ago. It’s the last line, it’s bullshit, it just won’t _work_.” he pouts.

“It’s not bullshit, babe.” Michael says, stroking a hand over Luke’s hair. Then, after a short thinking pause, he giggles. “Well, it probably is, but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Luke wordlessly holds out the sheets.

Michael takes them out of Luke’s slack hands and skims the pages. Then, as if struck by lightning (or, you know, inspiration) he dashes across the room, grabs a felt-tip pen from his desk and starts scribbling on the pages.

A minute later, Luke is sitting up against the side of his bed, still on the floor. He stares down at new words, new lines that have bloomed before his eyes, Michael’s messy handwriting over his neat thin letters.

_Sometimes everything comes different than you’d think_

_Sometimes this different is good_

_~~And sometimes this different makes you whole~~ _

_Cause sometimes this different is you_

And that’s just. That’s it.

This is it. It’s perfect. Beautiful.

Luke stares at Michael sitting next to him, his mouth hanging open. He’s aware of the fact that he probably looks like a fish on drugs right now, but he can’t bring himself to care.

It’s complete, _the fucking thing is complete_.

Luke doesn’t think he’s ever felt more love for Michael than right now in this very moment. He gapes at him, his eyes big with adoration and wonder. What in the actual hell. How is that boy even real, he will never know.

With an embarrassing yelp, he leaps forward and crashes their mouths together.

It’s not pretty. It’s open-mouthed and there’s teeth clashing and hands fisting in hair and Luke is pretty sure he’s drawn blood but he cannot even care, all sanity thrown out of the window by now. Michael is moaning into his mouth, licking at him like he wants to claim him, sheets lying forgotten behind them.

They kiss fiercely, ruthlessly. They kiss like they‘re starving and it’s hot and it’s messy and it’s perfect. Michael slips his tongue against the roof of Luke’s mouth, caressing with a gentle fierceness and Luke groans and drags him into his lap without breaking the kiss. His hands come to rest on Michael’s soft hips, immediately slipping lower and cupping his ass, drawing him even closer. Michael moans and lets his head fall against Luke’s neck, his teeth biting down on the spot where shoulder meets neck.

Luke squishes experimentally, high on the feeling of having a lap full of a heavy boy, effectively trapping him against the side of his bed. His cheeks feel full and soft in his hands when he digs his fingers in. Michael grinds on him in response, and _oh_ , okay, this is where this is going. Luke can feel the outline of Michael’s boner against his abdomen and that’s something he’s definitely felt before, two horny guys can’t exactly be making out 24/7 without one of them popping a stiffy from time to time. This is the first time he makes a decision, though.

There is an incredibly pretty boy in his lap. An incredibly pretty boy with a probably just as pretty dick.

Pretty boys’ pretty dicks deserve to be paid attention to.

In a moment of boldness, he retracts his hands from Michael’s ass, skilfully ignores the tiny dissatisfied whimper Michael lets out at that and drags them up to cup his face instead. He deepens the kiss again, tongue moving slowly and purposeful. He slips one hand lower, lower and lower over Michael’s chest and stomach until it reaches his crotch, and without even thinking about it again he squeezes.

“ _Fuck_ ” Michael groans out, head thrown back. “ ’S this where this is going, Hemmings?”

“Might be” Luke smirks in response.

Michael stills.

“What, seriously? We’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this” Luke confirms. “If, like, if you’re okay with it?”

“If I’m-”, he chokes on his words for a second. “Fuck yes, Lukey, I am so fucking okay with this.” He strokes a hand through the blonde’s hair, tender for a second. “But you, I’ve never been quite sure if you… Are you definitely a hundred percent sure you want this?”

“Yeah, I am” Luke says, and fuck, does his voice sound wrecked. He can’t even imagine what it sounds like to Michael.

Well, maybe he can.

Suddenly, there’s a flame beneath Michael’s eyes again and in a second he’s back at Luke’s neck, attacking him with kisses and wet, hot bites.

“Shirts. Off.” Luke manages.

Michael bites him again.

“Everyth- uhh, everything off, now.”

“Agreed” Michael mumbles against his skin hotly. “Way too many clothes. Always way, way too many clothes on you anyways.”

They undress each other quickly, rushed, Luke dragging Michael’s shirt over his head while he gets to work on his pants, his red hair coming out all fluffed up and adorable when he reappears. Chucking Luke’s jeans into a corner somewhere, Michael pulls his own off his legs and yup, there’s really no way of hiding how hard he is now, black boxers accentuating the curve of his dick nicely. Luke feels himself flush hot at the sight.

His bold quest to getting Michael naked is momentarily interrupted when he sheds his shirt as well and Michael immediately makes it his mission to attack his nipples which, well, were starting to feel a bit neglected. His digs his fingers into the red hair splayed out on his chest and desperately wishes he had a camera to capture this image and keep it forever. Maybe next time.

Luke’s tummy does an embarrassing flip at the mental mention of a next time.

“Take off your pants” Michael growls from down his chest.

Luke obeys immediately. Fuck pants. Who needs clothes anyways.

Overrated, they are.

Michael returns to him immediately, warm hands stroking over his chest and travelling lower, his body following and oh god, Luke can see where this is going. With an evil grin, Michael settles in between Luke’s legs and gives his dick an experimental stroke. His hand is nice and firm, a welcome pressure against his aching dick and Luke’s abdomen clenches.

“Mi- Michael, what are you…”

Michael looks up at him innocently from down between his legs, batting his eyelashes.

“Got a problem?” he says.

“No, fuck no, just- are we clear-“Luke stammers out.

Michael sighs dramatically.

“Luke Hemmings, I intend on blowing you until you come down my throat screaming my name. That clear enough for you?”

Luke will forever deny the whimper that comes out of his mouth at that.

He simply nods frantically.

“Good” Michael smirks. “Apparently dirty talk is a thing that works on you.”

Luke wants to protest, but _holy fuck_ there’s a mouth around his dick and Michael doesn’t even waste time, goes straight to sucking hard and his brain just. Logs off.

His brain decides to come back online a few seconds later, after the initial shock of somebody taking his blowjob virginity wears off. Luke savours the feeling of Michael around him His warm, velvety mouth takes him with ease, one bit at a time, his hand covering what he can’t fit into his mouth. Luke’s hands ball themselves to fists on their own accord, curling up with pleasure and pressing down onto the hard floor. He makes the mistake of looking down and oh, _fuck_. Michael’s mouth is big around his dick, pink, plump lips stretched wide and dripping with spit and now _that’s_ an image Luke’s seen in many a late night fantasy.

He needs to seriously contemplate his fantasy’s abilities because nothing, nothing he’d ever thought of could have been as good as this.

Luke feels his stomach tense up progressively and that’s, god, he can’t stand this much longer. He drops his hands down to Michael’s head and tugs hard, wanting to get his attention but Michael just moans around his dick and arches up into his hands.

“Michael, I- I think, I’m close, I- fuck-“

Michael does the closest thing possible to a smirk when there is, well, a literal dick in his mouth. And then he fucking _hums_ , hums in that mesmerizing, vibrating voice of his and Luke comes with a silent gasp, arching off the bed voicelessly. Michael, like the pro he is, swallows it all down, lapping at Luke’s dick until it’s all soft and clean again.

Luke might be in love. Luke is definitely so, so in love.

His head drops back against his bed, lolling around aimlessly. He grins at Michael, brain running on stand-by.

“Hey. Hey. Guess what.”

Michael heaves himself up again, kneeling in between Luke’s spread thigs, and raises an eyebrow.

“You’re great. You are possibly the greatest person in, like, ever.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re just saying that because I just gave you the orgasm of your life. Now come over here and help me with this situation.”

He gestures to his hard dick, still trapped in his boxers, now positively straining against the material and leaking precome.

And whoosh, there’s Luke’s post-coital bliss out of the window. His perjury about pretty boys and paying attention to their pretty dicks burns hot in his mind.

Michael tugs his boxers down just so that he can get his dick and balls out and groans when he gives himself a few strokes. Luke’s tummy flips at the sound. With sudden courage, he leans forward and reaches over. He bats Michael’s hand away sharply and wraps his long fingers around his dick, gives him a few enthusiastic jerks. Michael lets out a load high-pitched moan at that and now _that_ is music to Luke’s ears. That is what they should make a song of, Jesus Christ.

He starts jerking him faster now, determined on making Michael come. No teasing, no fucking around. (Well, aside from the obvious actual fucking that’s going on here.) He does not deserve to suffer. Michael deserves all the orgasms, in Luke’s opinion. Preferably given by him.

Michael is shaking against Luke now, his head buried in his neck, legs still entangled. His dick is slippery in Luke’s fist, precome coming steadily now, and Luke grips it tighter to get a better hold, to be able to treat him right, treat him the best-

And then Michael comes, biting down hard on Luke’s already abused shoulder to stifle his moans. Luke holds him while he shakes through his orgasm, both going lax and slumping down on the floor, muscles giving out underneath them entirely.

They lie there for a while, just breathing heavily, taking in the feeling of each other so close, both completely boneless and floating on their highs.

The music sheets underneath them are probably ruined, but Luke couldn’t really give less fucks.

Cleaning up afterwards is a joint effort, in Luke’s opinion. Michael gets a warm, wet towel and wipes them both down, cleaning up the traces of each other left on their skin, and Luke makes an effort not to kiss him stupid right there. It’s good teamwork. And teamwork is the basis of any functioning relationship.

(Michael throws the dirty towel at him when he says as much.)

Cuddled up on the bed afterwards, they’re both stupid, kissing lazily, just breathing each other’s air. Luke pulls the sheets tight around them, suddenly feeling the cold in their room. Michael pulls them down again.

“I waited like, four months to see you shirtless. I’ll take the pleasure of doing that now as much as I like.” he informs him earnestly.

Luke rolls his eyes.

Grinning, Michael presses down on the mouth-sized red spot between his neck and his shoulder, causing him to wince. Luke is going to have _such_ a hickey from that.

He can’t say that he particularly minds.

**Author's Note:**

> ~ fin ~
> 
> Kudos, comments, messages on any social networks are my life, my love, my fuel.
> 
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> 
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